


St(r)aying Off Script

by disaronnus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Bit Meta, Crack, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Language, Fluff and Crack, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, POV John Watson, Plot Bunnies - Freeform, Rabbits, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Tumblr Prompt, Victoriana, it's always 1895, overly elaborate foreplay, sherlock holmes requires context a lot of context, sherlock's live action fix-it fanfiction, subjectification, the sign of bunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-31 01:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12665856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaronnus/pseuds/disaronnus
Summary: Loving Sherlock Holmes, John Watson discovers, requires context.Alotof context.





	St(r)aying Off Script

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Des98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Des98/gifts).



> This fic exists entirely thanks to [this tumblr thread](https://disaronnus.tumblr.com/post/167263148455/fleurdelisandbees-conversationswithjohnlock) and [des98's ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Des98)brilliant prompt.  
>   
> Prompt:  
> "The idea of johnlock sexual fantasies just makes me wanna die laughing. Like, John would have pretty simple, straight forward hot and heavy ones, but Sherlock’s would be these grand historic and/or scientific theatrical productions. So John would be coming in feeling ridiculous in a 17th century male dancing costume to see Sherlock, naked, stretching lupine across a ballet bar, and he would be so turned on he would just kinda forget what he was doing and be like “holy shit,” because damn his boyfriend is beautiful. And Sherlock would abruptly shatter his stupor with “Jaaaawn, that’s not your line. And for gods sake, take off your wristwatch. It’s an anachronism." And later Rosie would be just playing with her kiddie Chem set all peacefully downstairs and all of a sudden hear her daddy whining- “That’s not how you pronounce grand jeté. You’re butchering the French language! Didn’t you read the pronunciation notes at the back of the script??!!!”

 

> "It was in the year [18]'95 that a combination of events, into which I need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one of our great university towns..."  
>  - _The Adventure of the Three Students_

 

The first time that John (Hamish) Watson makes love to (William) Sherlock (Scott) Holmes, there are twenty five British dandies in attendance.

 

Also sixteen late Victorian era British aristocrats and literati, twenty hothouse orchids, two hundred meters of blue and green bunting (John. Teal and forest green are your colors), one hundred tapered candles (lit), six oil lamps (also lit), two white rabbits, and one bouquet of green carnations.

 

It is the bunting that John encounters first.

 

He arrives home from a double-shift of locum work to discover that the stairs up to 221B have been profusely festooned with brightly colored, artfully draped swathes of cloth.

 

It does take him aback, momentarily. It does.

 

John frowns and scratches the back of his head. He is reasonably confident that when he vacated the building this morning, the stairs had been bunting-free.

 

On another day, he probably would have taken one look, concluded that something funny (something _Sherlocky_ ) was afoot and immediately turned around, gone back out the front door, walked to the corner, and sunk into a cozy, velvet-cushioned booth at his favorite pub to nurse a pint and eat some bloody fish and chips in peace.

 

Today, though, John finds himself feeling sanguine. Perhaps it is sleep deprivation, perhaps it is the exhaustion of a double-shift that leads him to dismiss his misgivings and appraise the situation through rose (teal and forest green) tinted glasses. Whatever the root cause, instead of walking away (like a sensible person), John Watson shrugs his shoulders, wipes his shoes on the mat in the front hall, and climbs the stairs to the first floor.

 

(John Watson is not a sensible person.)

 

Buntings are hardly the worst thing for the stairs to be decorated with, anyway, John muses on the way up. Could be livers. Could be livers and exploded lungs. Entrails. Rotting seagull corpses - he does not have to rely on his imagination for that one, unfortunately. That and the time the waste disposal company left off the entire contents of an industrial waste bin. (Snowing, John, it was snowing...I don't know why you are complaining, it's not like I had it deposited in the flat proper.)

 

No, buntings are far from the most ominous thing that has happened in 221B Baker Street.

 

Then John opens the door to the flat.

 

His first thought is that he has entered the wrong building.

 

His second is that he hasn't seen this much tweed and flounce since chasing that suspect through the back stage of that theatre on the Strand.

 

His third is to wonder why two enormous white rabbits are on the coffee table, munching carrots next to an enormous arrangement of green carnations.

 

“John!”

 

Sherlock, seated on the couch, apparently engaged in conversation with someone boasting a truly impressive specimen of a mustache (alarming in of itself), has spotted John's entrance. He catapults himself up onto and then over the coffee table. The vase of carnations nearly topples to the floor. The rabbits scatter in terror, leaving pellets behind in their wake.

 

“Sherlock - ”

 

“Excellent, John, you're home right on time. Here.” Sherlock thrusts a heavy parcel into his arms. “Thirty minutes. Pages one to nine, also Appendix A Section Three, and Appendix B Section Two, subsections a, b, and c.” He pushes past John into the kitchen. “Hendrickson!” Sherlock yells. “I told you, NO POLYESTER, polyester won't be invented for another forty six years!”

 

“Right,” John mutters, watching Sherlock go, “right.” He observes Sherlock advancing on someone in an elaborate purple gown with a fitted corset top and shockingly voluminous skirt. He is pretty sure he is not mistaken when he hears the words “Late Victorian, Sean! _Late_ Victorian! Everyone knows hoop skirts had fallen out of use by the 1890s!” come out of Sherlock's mouth.

 

John looks down at his feet.

 

The rabbits have come out of hiding and are nibbling on his shoelaces.

 

Perhaps he should have heeded the warning sign of the bunting after all.

 

John purses his lips and scans the room. A dozen or so people have gathered by the fireplace and have put their heads together. They are whispering urgently, casting occasional glances in his direction.

 

Somehow, John suspects they are not looking at him out of merely idle curiosity.

 

“Alright,” John says under his breath. “Alright.” He squares his shoulders. He can do this; he has gone through stranger, weirder. More painful. He has survived war. Cheated death.

 

He opens the parcel.

 

Inside is a bound booklet. The cover is blank, except for the image of a single green carnation. John frowns and flips to a random page.

 

_Jeeeezzzzzzusssss._

 

John coughs explosively.

 

“Sherlock!” he bellows. “Sherlock!”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

John shouts Sherlock's name until he comes barrelling out of the kitchen.

 

“John! Oh good, you've read the script. Hurry up, you've got just enough time to change and then do the initial - ”

 

John's head starts to spin. “Script, Sherlock?... Script?”

 

“Script, John, script.” Sherlock taps a finger impatiently on the booklet in John's hands. “London, late May 1895. _Regina v. Wilde_ has just come to a contentious and despicable conclusion - ”

 

“London - Regina – 1895 – Wilde - _what_?”

 

“- Wilde, John. Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. Born in 1854, renowned playwright, novelist, satirist, social commentator. Gay, convicted of gross indecency, sentenced to -”

 

“Sherlock,” John interrupts what would no doubt be a prolonged history lesson. Panic is starting to creep in. “Sherlock, why has our flat been turned into the set of a BBC period drama?”

 

Sherlock furrows his brow. “John, last night, we -”

 

Last night, John thinks. Last night.

 

Christ.

 

_Last night._

 

Sherlock is still talking.

 

“- and since we were both on board with each others' - ”

 

“Sherlock,” John says, very evenly, “are you telling me that there are currently, about twenty people - ”

 

“- Forty one, actually. Technically violating fire safety, but it shouldn't be an issue, unless someone spills one of the - ”

 

“- are you telling me that there are currently forty one people in our flat, dressed in attire from 1895 era London, surrounded by candles and oil lamps and exotic plants and _bloody_ rabbits because last night, after a very long, very detailed, very frank conversation about certain, er, topics of an intimate - ”

 

Sherlock sighs gustily, in his finest _John-you-are-being-an-idiot-again-I-can’t-believe-I-once-called-you-my-conductor-of-light_ voice. “Intimate, John, yes. Likes, dislikes, preferences, deal-breakers, fantasies, penises, testicles, nipples, masturbation, that spot behind your ear - ”

 

“- _Jes-us_ , yes, alright. You’re telling me you stayed up all night to write - ”  John leafs through to the end of the script “- thirty eight pages of what is a blow by blow guide - ”

 

“I wasn't planning on fellatio for tonight, John, but if you feel strongly, I'm sure we can rework Act III - ”

 

“Sherlock!” John snaps.

 

“Twenty nine pages,” Sherlock snaps back. “Only twenty nine pages. The other nine are supplemental material – appendices, bibliography, index. Completely feasible in the course of a single evening. If we start now that is.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Problem?”

 

John stares at Sherlock. “Let me get this straight. You spent all night writing out a step-by-step script to enacting one of your sexual fantasies, which turns out to be an epic historical set piece, and then today, while I was at the surgery, you hired....decorators and actors and... costumes and florists -”

 

“- caterers too, John, I know how hungry you are after a double-shift -”

 

“- right, florists and caterers and you arranged all this in less than 12 hours, jesus, _how_ _the hell_ _did you arrange all this in less than twelve hours_! ...no, you know what, no. Don't answer that. I don't want to know.” John massages his temples with one of his hands. “Sherlock, please tell all these people to leave our flat. Now.”

 

“But John!” Sherlock cries out, throwing both hands up in the air and almost upending a tower of profiteroles and eclairs. “We can't do that! It would destroy Cottontail and Buttonbottom!”

 

“I'm sorry,” John says through clenched teeth, “Cottontail and... Buttonbottom?”

 

“The rabbits, John,” Sherlock says, “the rabbits.” He glances at John's feet, where the rabbits are still placidly grazing on John's laces, seemingly oblivious to the heated exchange taking place over their heads. Sherlock bends down to scoop up one of the rabbits in his arms. He cradles it next to his face. “It would destroy them, John. This was supposed to be their big break.”

 

“Right,” John says, mesmerized by Sherlock’s fingers casually stroking through the rabbit's soft, white fur, as though cuddling wannabe famous rabbits happened everyday at 221B Baker Street. “Your thiry eight page-long personal live-action porno was going to launch the stage career of... two rabbits?”

 

“John!” Sherlock gasps, jerking his head away from (Cottontail)? (Buttonbuttom)? “Is that what you think this is?”

 

“Your very own, personal, thirty eight page-long live-action porno? Yeah _, I do,_ Sherlock.”

 

“John, this is not _pornography_.”

 

“No?” John counters. “So we're not playing at _Depraved_ _Sex Lives of Repressed Victorians_ , then? Just harmless historical re-enactment, with a bit of historically accurate sex play thrown in there for, what, educational value? Research? Science?”

 

“Everyone in this flat has signed a consent form and non-disclosure agreement - ”

 

“Even the rabbits?” John cuts in sarcastically.

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “ _Pages one to nine,_ John. Honestly. Did you even read the script? There is no sex in the first nine pages. This is merely setting the mood.”

 

“Setting the mood?” John looks around the flat. “Forty one historical reenactors, floral arrangements, pastry displays, enough candles to cause a nationwide wax shortage, and two white rabbits is...setting the mood?”

 

_Obviously_ , says the flinty expression on Sherlock’s face.

 

“So what, we costume up and, uh, act out,” John flips through the script, “nine pages of whatever this is, then it’s ah? Ta very much strangers, see yourselves out?”

 

Sherlock nods. “Pages ten to twenty nine are for later. In private. Just the two of us.”

 

Is John dreaming? He must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. A psychotic break.

 

Maybe Sherlock drugged him again.

 

Sherlock jiggles his weight from one foot to the other. “I did give you the role of romantic lead,” he adds. A grudging peace offering.

 

“Thanks awfully,” John responds, in as acid a tone he can manage. “What about the rabbits then?” He lifts his chin in the direction of the rabbit nestled in Sherlock's elbow. “Barristers? Master criminals?”

 

“Matchmakers, actually,” Sherlock replies haughtily.

 

“Matchmakers, right,” John repeats, slowly, trying to wrap his head around the _utter absurdity_. “The two adorable bunnies, bringing the two of us together, inciting an illicit encounter - ”

 

And that is what finally does in John Watson. (It's what always does in John Watson.)

 

He bursts into hysterical laughter.

 

At first Sherlock looks outraged, as though John has dared to call his sock index rubbish, or dismissed his treatise on ear wax cultures as _boring, boring, dull._ John can't stop laughing. Tears are running down his face, he is laughing so hard.

 

But then the edges of Sherlock's lips start to twitch, and several moments later, he is laughing just as hard, just as maniacally.

 

It is like that moment all those years ago, after chasing a murderer through the streets of London. The two of them against the wall of the stairwell, barely able to stand from the force of their shared joy and laughter.

 

They really are mad, the two of them.

 

“Christ, Sherlock, " John says in between giggles, "most people do a bit of fondling and kissing."

 

Sherlock sniggers and wipes the tears away from his eyes.

 

“Wait til we get to _Copenhagen 1941_ , John.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Many fanfiction writers write about sex in conjunction with beloved texts and characters not because they think those texts are incomplete, but because they're looking for stories where sex is profound and meaningful. This is part of what makes fanfiction different from pornography: unlike pornography, fanfic features characters we already care deeply about, and who tend to already have long-standing and complex relationships with each other. It's a genre of sexual _subjectification_ : the very opposite of _objectification_. It's benefits with _friendship."_  
>  -Francesca Coppa, "The Dwarf's Tale, The Fanfiction Reader: Folk Tales for the Digital Age

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] St(r)aying Off Script](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840495) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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